Capable Man

Do you think that one day,
If some cards fall my way
Life could my randomness perhaps sway
In the direction of a slightly more capable play;
Do things all by myself,
You know…
Without the help of my devout devotee, the overgrown Elf?
He who occupies my large backroom,
Once the province of some gloom and loom
Was a mere sewing room
Now lit brightly by the hairy beast
And by the new internet thingnymajig;
This giant geek has a computer rig
A modern, modem dooverlackie,
I know that terms somewhat old even for a lackey,
That makes me jump as several screens quickly coincide
When buttons briefly he’s touched
Must make once antagonistic atoms instantly collide,
My brain and soul want to avert and hide
As my head and eyes spin and dart
From side to side,
Oh, how it makes me fart and smart;
A website random apparently now I have
I drag my interest from its’ cobwebbed enclave
Sure that one day I will become a slave.
My pencil and old phone and papers I clutch
Random man finds it all a bit much
Comfortably culpable in his incapability,
He’ll wait a while completely out of touch.

Bulk Burial

Brave boys on the front have in the West fallen
Dying in dozens without even the chance to be crestfallen,
Young heroes in a hell they knew not existed;
A patriotic pall is all that is left,
Vitriol and victory are left bereft.

Not even the victors are grinners;
Only Death’s shadow grins, leers and sneers,
The winners, as such, do not grin
Do not, cannot smile,
Save a nervous one, once in a while.

The crowds back home laugh with joy
Jump, dance and throw hats skyward;
But smiling, true happiness, is not in their employ;
Frightened relief is their mustered reward
Shepherded forward by fear, Death’s dread steward.

Survivors return back, but not to home;
Irrevocably wrecked,
All but a few quickly find their way to a death;
Their home is with their mates in the ground and sky
Laying cold, chilled, frozen bones,
Dead like permafrost, bulk buried where they died.


Bucket list, undone ambitions hard to resist,
Wish the name I could desist,
Forget the fear of Death that persists;
What a cunt of term,
As bad as an old perm
Could we please rename it
Somehow reframe it
Maybe call it the fucket list
Better still, if you will,
Aspirational augmentation
Or with a little imagination,
A culmination catalogue
You know, get another dog,
After all these years,
Or something more serious,
No, I’m not delirious,
Such as learning to like men called queers,
Not fair they’re still the subject of misunderstood leers,
It’s a matter of camp quality,
Not camp quantity;
Or women called lesbians,
Just not right, no plight, not a waste of sin,
Makes you all seem like a bunch of has bins,
Staggering around with a politically incorrect grin;
But maybe it should just be called a duck-it list…
You’ll never do them all,
There will always be way too many,
Always something stuck away in your mind’s cranny,
Or your frontal lobal fanny.


Thought I’d got the old brush off,
Well, just maybe you had to rush off;
Waited outside,
Figured I’d give you a ride
Back home since we seemed to be on a date;
You’d got all dolled up, I thought I must rate,
But after a while, despite your quiet smile,
No text, no phone call,
Maybe some reason to appall,
I thought about the deal,
Your physical appeal,
Probable post-personal drama trauma
And decided to piss off, and get a lamb korma.
So you got the shits,
Told me I was out of my wits
Should’ve waited around
While you the young bucks tried to astound;
Bit too much salt, no wounds to rub it in
My meal came to a halt, as did my near self sin.

Ali-bye for a penny

She’s worth more than a penny
This singer, hope you had an alibi
You must have been more than high,
Coz she sure ain’t no alley cat
and I hope you’ve got an alley in which to hide;
Just saw her sing in harmony,
A chorister who should be a maker of money;
Don’t know why you took her for a ride
But she’s sure got this random dude on her side.